


Gimme Danger

by Thymesis



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Rebels, Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Bittersweet, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Explicit Sexual Content, Glam Rock, Implied Disability, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Pining, but you do need to be familiar with Star Wars, you don’t need to have watched Velvet Goldmine to read this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 12:27:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12108714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thymesis/pseuds/Thymesis
Summary: Seventh Sister believes she has a lead on the long-lost Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi…but why in the world would a fugitive Jedi Master wish to pursue a second career in glam rock?And what will Lord Vader do when he finds out about it?





	Gimme Danger

**Author's Note:**

> The obligatory Star Wars/Velvet Goldmine crossover fanfic, with huge props to Cori Lannam and Lilith Sedai, who [did it so memorably](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11060718) back in 1999. :-) Many thanks as well to Nightshade_sydneylover150, who gave me the idea for the opening scene.
> 
> The title of this story is taken from “Gimme Danger” by Iggy Pop. That song, performed live by Ewan McGregor, is [one of the most important musical numbers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VaDdH9Pqwq8) in _Velvet Goldmine_.

Glam rock.

Seventh Sister smirked. It didn’t seem possible, did it?

But her proprietary facial recognition algorithm had a proven 99.9998 percent success rate for Humans and Near-Humans, and it was telling her that it had found Obi-Wan Kenobi.

 _The_ Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jedi Master presumed alive and on the run since the final days of the Clone Wars. Of all the lost Jedi in the galaxy left to be found, only Yoda had a bigger bounty on his green, pointy-eared head. And she—she!!—had been the one to discover where he had been hiding. She was already imagining her reward. A personal commendation from the Emperor at the Imperial Palace at minimum. A promotion if she was lucky.

“Grand Inquisitrix,” perhaps? Or what about “Dark Lady of the Inquisitorius”…? Hmm, that one had a nice ring to it.

The discovery had happened purely by accident. A HoloNet affiliate on some backwater Outer Rim world had broadcast a local music festival, and her algorithm, programmed to crawl all HoloNet programming, had thrown up a potential match.

Naturally, she reviewed all potential matches herself before deciding whether or not—or how—to take action, and at first, what she had seen strained belief. The human male wailing unintelligible song lyrics and shouting abuse at his hecklers and exposing himself onstage had appeared far too young, too… _uninhibited_ to be a one-time leading figure in that disgraced monastic order.

But then she’d called up image files stored in a highly-restricted section of the Imperial Security Bureau’s database, and there’d been no doubt. Even the placement of the moles on his face had been the same! A Gamorrean could see it.

And so, here she was, unmarked rustbucket gliding into the one and only spaceport on this ugly, overcrowded excuse of an unnamed industrial planetoid. The landing apparatus began to deploy automatically.

He was scheduled to perform tonight. There were firm instructions on his file to capture him alive. Should be a cakewalk: His eyes had been glazed in the holo—illegal spice or some synthetic analogue, she was certain.

Her mind was so intent on her prize that as she stepped off her ship’s boarding ramp she didn’t notice him there until she’d practically crashed bodily into him.

“Where?” he asked.

“I-I beg your pardon, sir?” Seventh Sister replied, desperate to seem nonchalant, calm.

“Where is he?” Although the tones of Vader’s vocoder did not sound angry, she could feel danger rolling off of him in waves so intensely hot that she couldn’t help but shiver. Vader lifted one hand and closed it into a fist.

Seventh Sister felt her feet lift off the ground and her airway start to close. “A concert,” she wheezed. The pressure relented slightly, and she continued shakily. “They’re c-calling it ‘The Death of Glam.’ S-starts in one s-standard hour.” She jerked a quivering finger in the direction of the theater. “It’s r-right over there. C-can’t miss it.”

She watched Vader stride away, black armorweave cloak swirling behind him. Oh well, she thought, massaging her throat. All things considered, she’d been lucky to get off so easily.

The same couldn’t be said for Curt Wild.

***

It had been all too easy to gain entry to the performance venue. No bouncer, no matter how big and brawny, was a match for Darth Vader. All he’d had to do was stand in front of the bouncer, arms crossed and unmoving, until the bouncer had meekly stepped aside and waved him through.

No cover charge required. Being a Dark Lord of the Sith did have its perks.

The venue was pretty pathetic, and it was, at best, only half-full of beings in various degrees of drug- and alcohol-induced intoxication. He’d never have looked here, not in a hundred-thousand years, but Vader was always notified of any attempt within the Empire to access a Jedi’s files, and Seventh Sister’s apparent interest in _that_ particular Jedi had piqued his curiosity. Well, if Obi-Wan had in fact found a second career in glam rock, he did not appear to be the galaxy’s next big star. Vader felt not a small measure of smug satisfaction in that thought.

The lights went down. An anticipatory hush fell over the audience. Vader felt it too. The leather of the glove on his right hand creaked as he flexed his grip on the hilt of his lightsaber.

As soon as the curtains lifted to reveal a shirtless man kneeling onstage, clean-shaven with bleached blond hair, Vader experienced a sharp stab of disappointment. This was not Obi-Wan. Sure, advanced surgical intervention could erase scars and turn back the proverbial chrono, and even a former Jedi Master might deign to don a pair of shiny silver pants (although only a relative few could manage to look quite so good in them), but nothing ever fundamentally changed how one _felt_ in the Force. No, this was not Obi-Wan.

What a waste. Vader was about to storm out of the performance venue in disgust when Curt Wild began to sing.

The words were slurred, barely articulate—were they even in Basic? Yet they were hypnotic, and Vader froze, listening.

The Force itself was responding to the intensity of Curt’s music and amplifying it. A barrage of memories, impressions, really, overtook Vader’s senses, almost too fast to comprehend, and his mind began to merge with Curt’s. He was strapped to a gurney and assaulted with electricity. He was high, beyond caring whether he lived or died. He was coming down from the high, wishing he _would_ die. He was in the arms of another man, and they were kissing, and the surf pounding the beach was the only soundtrack. The man kissing him, the ocean breeze kissing both of them, no moment of his sorry little life more perfect: He’d believed their passion would be for forever, but his loyalty had been horribly betrayed before the end.

The emotions shivering through the space were anger, grief, regret, yearning…and hope. Unbounded, infinite hope. He wanted his lover back; in spite of everything that had happened, everything that had been stolen from him, he dreamed that his lover would return to him.

Curt still loved Brian. In spite of everything.

_Yes, he still loved him._

Wait. Who had loved whom?

***

A memory, unbidden. Of another place, a different lifetime. Anakin’s first truly dangerous mission assignment as Obi-Wan’s apprentice.

It’d been at a sleazy nightclub in the Coruscanti underlevels, loud and hot, crowded and disorienting, smoke from a half-dozen illegal substances hanging heavily in the air. Anakin hadn’t really been able to tell whether the beings moving in time to the flashing lights and pulsing music had been dancing or fucking. He’d pretended not to look too closely.

He and Obi-Wan hadn’t been there for pleasure. They had been chasing down an unpromising lead on a Twi’lek slave trafficking ring…and unexpectedly waltzed into the very heart of the operation itself. They hadn’t been prepared for this turn of events; they had been seconds from being discovered, blowing their cover, jeopardizing the mission.

And at that crucial moment, Anakin had panicked, all that assiduous Jedi training abandoning him faster than a starship in freefall. No, they’d been _seen_ —!

Abruptly, two strong hands had grabbed his shoulders. He’d struggled instinctively at first, but a knee pressed into his groin—a dire warning—and he had been pulled into a passionate kiss. Touch. Warmth. Sweetness. When his mouth had opened in shock, the kiss had deepened, wicked tongue teasing the sensitive flesh behind his teeth while deft fingers tangled in his hair…and conveniently concealed his Padawan braid from view.

 _Obi-Wan_.

Now Anakin really was struggling, desperate not to get away but rather to get closer, and he didn’t care who might be watching them suspiciously anymore. Caress. Ardor. Ah, delicious. He’d twined his arms around Obi-Wan’s waist, clutching at the loose layers of his tunics, moaning wordlessly into their kiss as an urgent tingle of need began to stir low in his belly. He’d pushed himself against Obi-Wan, then, and felt that unmistakable answering hardness trapped between them…

The crush of writhing, gyrating clubbers had eventually helped carry them to safety. Once out of sight, they’d detached from each other and made swiftly for the nightclub’s exit, fleeing the underlevels altogether and returning to the Temple to make an emergency report to the Council.

Finally, when they had been allowed to retire, master and apprentice had each gone to his separate living quarters. But in those early hours before dawn, alone in his narrow Padawan’s cell, Anakin had licked at his lips, the intoxicating taste of Obi-Wan lingering on them, and brought himself off at least twice. He’d had to bury his face into his pillow as he cried out, sobbing, for his Master each time.

They’d never spoken about the kiss. Obi-Wan had never broached the subject and had started growing his beard soon afterwards, as a matter of fact, like there was something about his face he needed to keep hidden. Anakin had been too afraid to ask about any of it—

—afraid because he knew he would ask for it to happen again, for it to continue where it had left off. And because there was nothing else, not the adulation of his peers, not elevation to Knighthood, not a glimpse of Senator Amidala, not even reunion with his mother on Tatooine, that Anakin had ever wanted _more_.

***

The masked stranger with his back against the wall wasn’t a regular. Curt Wild knew all of his regulars.

The absolute intensity with which the being had watched him perform, however, was unmistakable…and enticing. The being had radiated such power and danger and raw _maleness_. Curt desired him and what he represented—and was unafraid to show it. After the concert, he’d met the being’s gaze and held it lustfully, and when he’d headed in the direction of stairs to the roof, he knew he would be followed.

And he was.

“I knew you’d come. You followed my signals,” he said to the masked stranger, already comfortable and reclining against the rooftop parapet, feigning nonchalance. He took a last long drag on his deathstick before flicking it down onto the street far below.

The stranger was silent and unmoving. Curt could hear him breathing, slow and even. By the cool light of the moon, he looked carved from a single polished block of ebony. Powerful. Dangerous. Exciting. Yes. _Beautiful_. And up close like this, he towered over Curt; he was enormous.

“So,” Curt tried again. Best to ease this one in gradually. “Are you a glam rock fan?”

“No.”

Oh well. Curt didn’t take such aesthetic judgments personally, and he was undeterred. “Okay then. What’s your favorite color?”

“I…”  A pause. “I don’t know.” Another pause. “I suppose I don’t have one.”

Wow, tough customer! Curt pulled a can of beer from a cache he kept up here for occasions like these. “Want a drink?”

The masked stranger seemed to shake his head slightly. It was the first time he’d moved since appearing as if by magic on the roof with Curt. “I cannot.”

“Do you mind if I do?” Not bothering to wait for a reply, Curt opened the can…and most of its contents exploded messily out of it, soaking Curt’s clothing in fizzy, sticky liquid. It was silly and embarrassing, and Curt dissolved into helpless laughter. “Just my luck!” he chortled, grinning.

The masked stranger did not join in, but something, some secret tension, tightly wound, seemed to release, and he sat down beside Curt. Not quite close enough to touch…but nearly.

Curt fished about for something to mop up his spilled drink. “Do you have—” he began. And then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the meteor blazing across the night sky. “Look!” he exclaimed, delighted, spilled drink forgotten. “A shooting star! Make a wish.”

“I don’t believe in making wishes,” the masked stranger said shortly.

“But you don’t mind if I do, do you?” Curt asked with a hint of mischief.

“No.”

“Good.” Curt smirked. “I’ve made my wish. I want a kiss. From you.”

“I-I cannot remove this—” the masked stranger began to protest—

But Curt’s lips were already pressed decisively against the jutting mouth grille of that strange, dangerous-looking mask. Their breath mingled, moist and smoke-flavored, as he stared deeply into those ruby lenses, trying to see the eyes of the man behind them. It was futile. So, instead, Curt examined the rest of him, running his hands delicately down the blinking lights and buttons on the chest control panel, the dark polish on his nails and his pale, vulnerable flesh both comparison and stark contrast to the masked stranger.

There was no gap in the armor anywhere, Curt realized; it was hermetically sealed.

“This is a life-support suit. You’ve been hurt bad, haven’t you?” Curt’s words were gentle, sympathetic. He cupped the plasteel codpiece. “Are you capable—”

He never finished that question because suddenly the masked stranger was tearing Curt’s sodden clothing open and laying claim to his hard cock with one huge, gloved hand, stroking with confidence, and then Curt was twining his limbs around the masked stranger, burying his face into his shoulder, and biting down on the filmy cloth of his cloak as, too soon, much, much too soon, he came.

The orgasm was like a sun gone nova in Curt’s mind, and somehow—he didn’t know how—he was aware of the masked stranger sharing his pleasure. Oh, how the giant body covering his jerked and shuddered! It went on and on forever…

…until it was over, and the masked stranger rose to his feet, Curt’s abundant white semen dripping, seemingly unnoticed, down his thick, black thighs. He was about to leave Curt behind.

“Stay,” Curt pleaded, naked and panting and vulnerable.

His beautiful masked stranger hesitated, crouched back down, and reached out to brush the curve of Curt’s jawline with a kind of wonder.

“Please. Just until morning,” Curt clarified, closing his eyes and leaning into the caress.

And he did. They held each other throughout the long night and welcomed the new dawn from the rooftop together.

 

END


End file.
